He lies in a little room all by himself. No one is allowed to go to him. A red curtain hangs before the window.
My little boy sits alone on the steps outside and stares up at the curtain. His hands are thrust deep into his pockets. He does not care to play and he speaks to nobody.
And I walk up and down the room, uneasy as to what will come next.
"You are anxious about our little boy," says his mother. "And it will be a miracle if he escapes."
"It's not that. We've all had a touch of scarlatina."
But just as I want to talk to her about it, I hear a fumbling with the door-handle which there is no mistaking and then he stands before us in the room.
I know you so well, my little boy, when you come in sideways like that, with a long face, and go and sit in a corner and look at the two people who owe so much happiness to you—look from one to the other. Your eyes are greener than usual. You can't find your words and you sit huddled up and you are ever so good.
"Mother, is Einar ill?"
"Yes. But he will soon be better again. The doctor says that he is not so bad."
"Is he infectious, Mother?"